


Running Backwards

by Jess_B_Fossil



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BalletTeacher!Yuri, Big surprise, Blowjobs, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Misunderstandings, Modern AU, OC, Oral Sex, Otabek as a sister, Ours boys are going about this the exact wrong way., Porn With Plot, Romance, Smut, it's Maya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:01:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24476158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess_B_Fossil/pseuds/Jess_B_Fossil
Summary: Yuri looks soft, Otabek realizes; he’s struck by how everything that he’s known to be Yuri, really isn’t Yuri at all. Otabek swallows thickly as he watches from his corner, leaning against his piano, before moving to chug the rest of his water.  When he gets home later that night to his quiet home, he calls his sister.“Hey,” Otabek says the moment that she picks up, leaving no room for her to even greet him. “I think that I’ve fallen in love with Yuri.”
Relationships: Otabek Altin/Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 17
Kudos: 189





	Running Backwards

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theangryuniverse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theangryuniverse/gifts).



> AND SO, I spent two days writing this massive Porn with Plot for theangryuniverse, because her Birthday was yesterday. HAPPY BDAY. I hope you like this. 
> 
> Update: I properly edited this and holy shit, I can't believe that I posted this with so many typos. I'm so fucking sorry, lmao.

It hits him one day, like a bag of bricks. 

No one actually _likes_ Yuri Plisetsky; he’s a hot-headed, foul-mouthed man, with a temper that raged like a caged tiger at a zoo. It didn’t matter if he was the only ballet teacher in town worth his shit, dealing with him required a careful balance of practiced motions. A steak in one hand, the other out in a placating gesture; always five feet away, voice low and soothing. 

Whether or not Yuri will listen, depends on a lot of things. The day, the weather, whether he had eaten, _what_ he had eaten. If he’d already snapped at some poor soul, who just happened to look at him the wrong way.

Otabek grew up in this small town in the middle of nowhere, and one day, Yuri had blown in like a bad thunderstorm that never quite left. Most of the townsfolk ignored Yuri the best that they could, but Otabek can’t because he _works_ with the prickly man. 

Yuri’s weirdly good with kids though, his hackles dropping just the slightest bit as he runs his students through basic ballet forms on the barre. With the older students he’s harsher, but it’s a tough love that breeds strong performers with strong foundations. 

They aren’t friends, they’re enemies, really. Otabek sits at the piano through every class, playing an accompaniment that’s either too fast or too slow. Or it lacks finesse and style. Yuri will ask for _Tchaikovsky,_ not a cheap imitation of the man. Yeah, Yuri’s standards are abysmally high and he hates Otabek on principal, snarling and shooting him rude gestures when he thinks his students aren’t looking. 

It’s because Otabek plays it cool. No amount of yelling, or taunting, or anything really, will push him over the edge. At first, Yuri’d been mildly annoyed by Otabek’s ability to just take things in strife, but as the years wore on, it got worse and worse and--

Well now, it’s Yuri’s life mission to make Otabek’s day as miserable as possible, trying to find that breaking point.  
  
And so: 

One day, it hits Otabek like a sack of bricks.

Yuri isn’t just good looking, he’s beautiful, shimmering with ethereal grace as he twirls around the studio to show his students a technique. Otabek isn’t immune, even with Yuri’s problematic personality to consider. He’s spent years watching him and his long legs, from his piano bench tucked into the corner of the studio. 

Not that Otabek _wants_ him, or anything. Or vice versa. Yuri would sooner claw his eyeballs out. 

That day though, they’re on a break between classes. Students flit in and out to ask questions. Otabek leans against the piano, water bottle in hand as he watches silently. Yuri’s phone rings and he excuses himself from a young woman to take it. 

_“Dedushka,”_ he answers, his lips curling around the Russian word. 

Otabek knows a lot about Yuri, but nothing really from before his whirlwind arrival in Sunny Grove. He knows that he has a grandfather back home in the Motherland, and that Yuri doesn’t get to speak to him nearly as much as he’d like. 

It’s the first time he’s seen Yuri take a call from family, and it’s strange. The hardened mask Otabek is so used to seeing on his face softens. Yuri’s cornsilk hair is tied up into a ponytail, flyaways framing his face, as his mouth curls around soft words in Russian. His eyes narrow in amusement, crinkling around the corners, and--

He looks soft, Otabek realizes; he’s struck by how everything that he’s known to be _Yuri,_ really isn’t Yuri at all. Otabek swallows thickly as he watches from his corner, leaning against his piano, before moving to chug the rest of his water. 

When he gets home later that night to his quiet home, he calls his sister. 

“Maya,” Otabek says the moment that she picks up, leaving no room for her to even greet him. “Maya, I think that I’ve fallen in love with Yuri.”

You know, the man that he's privately complained about for years.

There’s a long pause from her end, and then: “Well, that’s a surprise.”

#

It turns out, that falling in love with your mortal enemy, is pretty annoying. 

Otabek’s always been mildly annoyed by Yuri and his demeanor, but is ultimately able to overlook it for, the sake of their classes. Work is hell now though, because all Otabek can do is stare at Yuri as he stretches, arms wide as he pirouettes with perfected flair, long legs clad in tight leggings and--

“Oi,” Yuri snaps at him. 

And Otabek is constantly distracted. 

Yuri’s hand slaps down on the top of the piano and Otabek winces. “You going to play, or not?”

“Yeah,” Otabek murmurs, sitting straight on the bench, hands curving into the proper position. He sets about with a melody and--

Yuri reaches over to slam the lid shut. Otabek’s quick, pulling his hands away just fast enough as he looks at him incredulously. “Does that sound like Tchaikovsky to you?” Yuri snaps. “Have you forgotten that we’re working on Swan Lake?”

Otabek sighs, before moving to lift the lid gently. The piano’s not a good one, but she’s hardy enough and doesn’t deserve such rough treatment. “I just-- sorry, I’m distracted.”

Yuri watches him for a moment that feels like forever, and then he says, “Are you okay?”

Otabek’s surprised by the question, because it kind of sounds genuine, something that he’s never heard from Yuri. But then the moment is gone and Yuri continues with, “You better be, because I can throw you out, just like any student.”

He really can’t, but Otabek would go, he’d do anything to get out of the hot and stuffy room, because he feels positively suffocated at the moment. He clears his throat instead though, cracking his knuckles gently as he repositions them over the keys. 

“Act Two, the _Allegro Moderato,”_ Yuri says. “The Dance of the Little Swans.”

Otabek nods, fingers pressing into familiar chords. Yuri’s students flex in the background, flitting about with their choreography. Yuri doesn’t watch them though, he watches Otabek instead, leaning on his elbows against the edge of the piano.

Otabek watches him back. 

#

It takes weeks for Yuri to ask him again. 

“Are you okay?” 

The thing about Sunny Grove, is that it’s not a grove and it’s not sunny; it’s a barren wasteland of hard-caked earth and shrubs, that’s boiling in the summer and freezing in the winter. They’ve just started Fall, orange-red leaves carpeting the ground all around them. 

It’s cold enough to bundle up though, and they stand there just outside of the studio, breath puffing in front of their faces. Yuri looks at him with surprising honesty, and Otabek’s mouth goes dry. 

“Wanna grab some coffee?” he blurts, and then he realizes what he’s said, and he can _feel_ his face burn bright red. Yuri’s about to cringe or snarl at him, shoving off the absolutely absurd idea--

Yuri blinks, mouth parted in confusion, before he says, “Um, okay.”

The coffee date isn’t actually a date, Otabek tells himself. It’s also not as awkward as he would think. The two of them invite a few weird stares, because the town is small enough that everyone knows everyone, and they all _know_ that he and Yuri don’t really get along. 

But it’s nice, Otabek thinks, sitting there in the warm cafe, fingers wrapped around a steaming mug of sweet-smelling latte. Yuri sits next to him, long legs folded into the soft leather armchair. 

“We’ve known each other for years,” Yuri says conversationally, but his eyes are trained on his mug. He’s never really been good with eye contact, unless he’s angrily hurling insults. 

“Yeah,” Otabek says. Yuri had blown into their no-name village when he was barely twenty, and half a decade’s passed since then. It’s odd, how you can spend most of your days with a person, and still be strangers. 

“We really don’t know each other,” Yuri says, like he’s picked the thought right out of Otabek’s head. “It’s weird that you asked me out.”

Otabek is quiet for a moment before he says, “It’s weird that you said yes.”

Yuri hums at that, thinking. It’s weird to see him like this, less harsh angles and and more soft and contemplative. “I guess we’re both a little fucked up, then,” he says, and then sips at his mug. 

It’s Otabek’s turn to hum, watching Yuri quietly through a lidded gaze. 

“That’s not a bad thing,” Yuri finishes. 

#

Nearly two months pass and things change.

Tuesdays are now coffee days, where they sit and chat, and share warm mugs of steaming drinks with stories to go along with them. 

Yuri’s something, Otabek’s come to learn. Yuri’s not really a raging flame of balled up anger, he’s a spitfire of his own making, and honestly something admirable. The people of Sunny Grove don’t like people like them; men who don’t act like men, but _love_ men instead. They’d rather sneer and view them as less, because it’s easier than treating someone who’s a little bit different, like an actual human being. 

Yuri and Otabek are similar in a lot of ways, but they respond differently in kind; Yuri fights back with claws and fangs, and Otabek takes the hit quietly. 

They aren’t dating, Otabek tells himself. 

Tuesday coffee-days aren’t dates, and neither are Wednesday movie nights, or their early morning jogs, or when Otabek walks Yuri home some nights. Yuri falls asleep on his couch, because he’s a friend, not a boyfriend, and Otabek offers him breakfast in the morning because it’s polite. 

Yuri stays, because Otabek is a good cook. 

Work’s become an easy thing and they share lunches together now, much to the amusement of Yuri’s students. He barks at them to buzz off, but still takes the sandwich that Otabek’s made, smiling in turn, a rare treat that lights up his face and--

Otabek nearly chokes on his food.

That night, when Yuri’s camped out on his couch again, blanket pulled up to his chin and drooling on the leather, Otabek watches him quietly, before reaching out to brush Yuri’s bangs away from his long eyelashes. Then he hides in his room to call his sister. 

“Maya,” Otabek hisses when she answers, and like always, she can’t get a word in before he continues. “I love him, Maya,” Otabek says, hand curled into a fist and pressed against his brow as he lets out a long breath. “He’s sleeping on my fucking couch, and I love him.” Not a question, but a declaration, but his words are small and they waver, because this kind of thing is scary.

She always pauses, thinking about her answers, so there’s an expected silence before: “Why do you sound surprised?”

#

Otabek is a non-practicing Muslim, so he doesn’t celebrate Christmas. Yuri is a Catholic that doesn’t believe in God, so he doesn’t either. 

But somehow, they’re squished together on Otabek’s couch watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_. Yuri’s never seen it and is weirdly invested. Otabek barely watches the movie, watching Yuri instead. He’s beautiful, really, and it’s not because of his high cheekbones and silky hair. 

It’s in the way that he’s learned to let loose and relax around him, and Otabek finds himself yearning to lean closer for just a brief touch and--

“No man is a failure, who has friends,” Yuri says, repeating Clarence’s words from the end of the movie. “I would never have thought.”

“That a man can’t be a failure?” Otabek asks. 

“That I’d have a friend.” Yuri says it so casually, easily, like it’s second nature and expected. Like they’ve been friends for years, instead of their dynamic slowly, _slowly_ flipping entirely upside down. Otabek wants to say something, he really, _really_ does; something that is bound to get him into a lot of trouble. But he doesn’t. 

“James Stewart was a good looking guy,” Yuri says, and suddenly it’s ice cold in the room, because this is uncharted territory. 

Sometimes, when you get to know a person, there are just things that you _know_. They’ve never talked about it, their sexuality or their likes and dislikes in men, but they’ve never needed to. Yuri understands Otabek, and Otabek understands Yuri. It’s part of why their friendship had grown so easily over the months; they’d just clicked together with so little effort.

That being said, Yuri doesn’t _really_ know everything. 

“Yeah, he was,” Otabek finally says, but his words fall flat, because he’d much rather a man with hair the color of moonglow and a sharp smile.

Yuri looks at him for a moment, and then turns back to the TV to change the channel. 

“The Santa Clause,” he pronounces, reading the programming guide. “Never seen this one either.”

Yuri tosses the remote onto the carpet in front of the couch, before moving to grab the quilt that’s thrown across the back. He murmurs something about being cold, unfolding the thing and spreading it out across both of them. 

The Yuri turns sideways, leaning against the arm of the sofa before pressing his cold feet underneath Otabek’s thigh without a word. 

Otabek doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t move either. 

#

The new year comes and goes, and Otabek’s confused as to whether or not, they are in fact, dating.

The not-coffee-dates seem more like dates now, with lingering touches and Yuri pulling his chair closer to Otabek. Their movie nights are cuddle-filled, Yuri’s feet in Otabek’s lap as he idly massages broken and bruised toes. 

Yuri spends more time on his couch than he does in his own apartment, not that Otabek’s complaining. He loves Yuri’s quiet grunts in the morning, and the way that he refuses to speak until he’s had a cup of coffee, or the way that he steals food off his plate, or hogs the blanket on the couch or--

When Otabek rounds the corner, Yuri’s wearing his clothing, having pilfered them from his drawers. And it’s not the first time; he’s stolen plenty of his jackets and sweatshirts over the weeks, but this is different. Otabek’s t-shirt is so big on him that it slips off Yuri’s shoulder, and when Yuri lifts the hem to scratch at his stomach, Otabek can see the sharp line of his hipbone where his plaid pajama pants are slung low enough to be _criminal_. 

“Good night, Beka,” Yuri says with a yawn, flopping onto the couch like he owns it. 

The nickname is new. Yuri’s not the affectionate sort, but the name feels like there’s meaning behind it, and something that feels a little bit like hope blooms in Otabek’s chest. 

Later that night, he calls Maya again. 

“I’m not good at this,” Otabek says to her. “I’ve never been good at this, but with him, it’s different.”

This time she doesn’t say anything, she just sighs.

#

Otabek doesn't claim to be an expert on relationships, but he knows that he and Yuri seem to be doing things a little backwards. 

This is solidified one night, months after they’ve started this awkward song-and-dance. Instead of watching TV, they’re on Otabek’s porch. It’s the end of January and the beginning of February, and snow’s coming down in soft little tufts. Yuri’s wrapped in the couch quilt, standing at the deck railing, watching the soft flakes drift about, as his breath puffs out in front of him. 

And then Yuri turns to Otabek, who’s lounging on an outdoor sofa under the overhang, cheeks pink with the cold and says, “So, when are we going to fuck?”

Otabek’s so surprised, that he drops his whisky glass which shatters against the ground. Otabek _wishes_ that he’d been more than a small glass in, because there’s no way that Yuri’s actually asked him something like that, with such frankness. 

“Otabek,” Yuri says, stepping closer with a coolness that belies the blanket wrapped childishly around his shoulders. “Beka,” he says, his words like smooth honey as he presses forward. Otabek leans back and back and back until he hits the sofa arm. There’s nowhere else to go. 

“Yuri--” Otabek starts, grabbing Yuri’s shoulders as he leans over him.

Yuri doesn’t pout. He bites at his lip and he’s nervous-- _nervous--_ because he’s worried that he’s said the wrong thing, that he’s crossed the line, that he’s read the situation wrong. Allah above, Yuri hasn’t, he’s done everything right in that moment, and Otabek just wants to respond. 

Otabek’s hands slide down to Yuri’s hips and he pulls him closer, sitting up on the sofa properly. Yuri straddles his waist, pressing Otabek back into the soft cushion of the loveseat. He’s taller than Otabek, so he folds his legs around him awkwardly, but they can make it work.

“This is a bad place for this,” Otabek murmurs, resolve already wavering as he lifts a hand to tug at a lock of Yuri’s hair that’s falling from his hair tie. 

Yuri’s face drifts closer, and even though they’re under the overhang where there isn’t snow, little flakes cling to his pale lashes. “Your neighbors can’t see.” He pauses. “Hell, I can barely see, and that’s a little unfair.” 

Otabek slides a hand underneath the hem of Yuri’s shirt, thumbing at the sharp hip bone there. “It’s cold out here.”

“I can fix that,” Yuri says, his words double-ended in their meaning. He shifts to wrap the quilt around them both. Yuri slides his hands across Otabek’s chest, and then downward, _downward_ and--

Otabek grasps his wrist gently. “Yuri,” he says, his voice a whisper, his breath a soft cloud between them. “Is this what you want?”

Yuri laughs, low and dangerous, slinging his other arm around Otabek’s shoulder as he shifts closer. Otabek shivers at the lips pressed against his ear. “For what seems like ever,” Yuri says, nosing at the skin there and--

“Yuri,” Otabek hisses, because Yuri’s slots his hips closer. He’s wearing Otabek’s sleep pants again, the soft material already tented and straining, and _Allah above,_ nothing’s hidden. Yuri’s already hard and wanting.

“Do you want this?” Yuri asks him, waiting patiently as he gives him an out.

Otabek considers it, thickly swallowing, but only for a second. Instead, he reaches up and tugs the tie from Yuri’s locks, a cascade of silken gold tumbling down and skimming the middle of his back. Otabek slides his fingers into the silken tresses, scratching at Yuri’s scalp lightly, before pulling his face closer. 

Yuri is the one to close the gap entirely, dipping down and pressing his lips against Otabek’s. Sparks fly. Otabek’s kissed people before, but it’s never been like this, he’s never felt like he’s about to boil alive, his mind high on the thought of Yuri above and against him. Otabek’s core on fire. His fingers tighten in Yuri’s hair, pulling him closer, lips pressing against his with more force. 

Yuri moans, one hand grasping Otabek’s chin to angle his mouth differently, guiding the kiss into something deeper. Otabek gasps at the touch, lips parting as Yuri licks into his mouth with carefully placed precision, tongue soft and warm as strokes along Otabek’s.

Otabek moans into his mouth, both hands moving to grasp Yuri’s hips tightly, pulling them down to grind against his own. It’s a delicious friction and Yuri keens at it, hips rising and falling against Otabek’s solid form. Otabek’s going to burn up, he’s going to boil alive and end up a dry little husk, but it’s okay because he’s wanted this for what seems like forever. Seems like a decent way to die. 

Yuri pulls away and Otabek groans, _“Yura.”_ Then Yuri presses his forehead against Otabek’s, eyes drifting closed, like he wants to say something. But he doesn’t. Instead, his actions speak louder than words, his hand drifting downwards between them again. 

Otabek’s wearing pajamas as well, so it’s easy for Yuri to loosen the ties and slip his hand in, dragging his fingertips along the hard ridge of Otabek’s cock, before wrapping his hand around it. Otabek hisses, head falling back against sofa, eyes shut tight as he tries to hold on. His fingers dig tightly into Yuri’s thighs, as he bucks into the grip, Yuri’s hand warm and tight around him. 

His hand falters, as Otabek tugs at the Yuri’s pants down, past the swell of his ass and thighs. Yuri sits back to shake a leg free, the pants remaining hooked around his other. Otabek doesn’t care and neither does Yuri, because he immediately leans forward again to reconnect their lips. 

Yuri’s cock is hot and hard in his hand, utter perfection. Otabek can’t see in the darkness of his backyard, or into the blanket, but he doesn’t need to. It’s Yuri that’s a picture before him, knees trembling around Otabek’s thighs as he hisses into the kiss. 

“Beka,” Yuri breathes against his mouth. 

Otabek doesn’t want this to end. He wants this to last forever, this searing heat, Yuri settled over him, flushed and and whining into his mouth as he comes undone. Otabek wants to see it, he needs to see it, to feel it, to watch him as he tumbles over the edge that they’re chasing. 

Otabek pulls away to lick at his hand, before grasping at Yuri’s cock again. 

“Oh--” Yuri moans, head falling forward as he grips at the sofa cushion behind Otabek’s head. _“Oh.”_

Otabek jerks him once, twice, his hand tight around Yuri’s length, piano-calloused fingers twisting around the head of his cock and squeezing tightly on the upstroke. 

Yuri bats his hand away. “Stop-- Oh, _God.”_

Otabek’s confused, but then Yuri shifts his hips closer, pressing their cocks together and with a quick lick to his palm, he wraps his long fingers around the both of them. 

Yuri whines above him, hand slick and warm. It’s hot under the blanket, but Otabek pulls him closer, mouth pressed into the long column of his neck, licking at the skin there as his fingers curl into Yuri’s hair once more. Yuri’s grip around their cocks tightens, as Otabek bucks into it. 

“Fuck,” he hisses out, and Yuri laughs, probably because he’s never heard him say such a filthy word. “Yuri-- _Yura.”_

“Again,” Yuri says, “I like it when you call me that. Say it again.”

The nickname, Otabek realizes. It’s been a private name for Yuri, but he’s let it slip out a few times since Yuri pressed him against the sofa and mounted him with feverish want. Yuri’s got a hand braced against the sofa behind his head, the other one tight around them. Stroking and twisting and squeezing. 

“Yura,” Otabek moans, reaching up to grasp Yuri’s cheeks between his hands, thumbs rubbing along those beautiful cheekbones. _“Yura,”_ he says again, his voice a husky whisper. 

The grip around them tightens as Yuri bucks into it, sliding alongside Otabek’s length. The friction is perfect, his hand just tight enough, his cock hot and slick against his. Otabek presses their foreheads together, as Yuri ruts against him, eyes fluttering closed and gasping. 

“Beka, I’m--” He moans, long and drawn out, voiced pitched lower than Otabek’s ever heard it before. _“I’m-”_

Yuri comes first, spending directly into his fist, trembling above Otabek as he braces himself against the sofa to keep from toppling over. His head is thrown back, flush down to his collarbones and bracketed by the quilt. He’s the most beautiful thing that Otabek’s ever seen. 

Yuri let’s go and pulls away, leaving Otabek’s cock angry and leaking. He whines pathetically at the loss of contact. 

“Shh,” Yuri soothes him, but he scoots further away before, pulling off entirely. Otabek wants him back, he wants Yuri in his lap, warm against him as he presses kisses into his neck--

Yuri’s hand is on him once more, but this time he’s kneeling on the hard ground, the quilt slipping down a shoulder. The lighting isn’t good, but it’s good enough, and Yuri regards Otabek’s cock like it’s a wonder, running his fingers along it with a skittering touch. 

And then Yuri’s head dips lower, tongue snaking out to lick up his leftover come, before his lips wrap around the head of Otabek’s cock, warm and wet and soft, his hand stroking along the shaft gently in tandem. 

It takes everything for Otabek not to slide straight into Yuri’s throat. “Shit,” Otabek bites out. “Shit,” he repeats, because if Yuri keeps this up, he won’t last long. 

Yuri must know that though, because he can practically feel him smirk around his cock before pressing down, down, _down_ , until his nose is nestled against his groin, nuzzling the soft skin there and--

 _“Fuck.”_

Yuri’s a demon, Otabek decides. Yuri’s a demon, and he’s burning up in hell, because there’s no way in heaven that someone is _this_ perfect. Otabek’s hands find purchase in his hair, trying to stop himself from pressing deeper into that hot warmth and just holding Yuri there. Hot and tight, wet, with searing heat. 

Yuri hums around him before pulling back, hollowing his cheeks, sucking around him in earnest and then Otabek’s babbling, “Yura, _Yura I’m--”_

He tumbles over the edge and straight into Yuri’s mouth. He swallows it up, every drop, stroking him gently through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Otabek isn’t certain that he’s died and gone to hell, and that he’ll never be revived. 

They’re both hot and sweaty, despite the frozen air. Otabek watches Yuri lick at his lips with a satisfying hum and the fire spreads south again. He’s spent though, beyond spent, unable to rouse again and thank Allah, because he’s not sure that he can handle another religious experience. 

Otabek pulls Yuri back up again and flush against him. Yuri’s taller and longer limbed, but they manage to fit well together, like a puzzle. Otabek takes Yuri’s cheeks in hand again, pulling him down for another kiss and Yuri happily falls into it. 

And they kiss and kiss and kiss. 

Yuri doesn’t sleep on the couch that night, he sleeps in Otabek’s bed instead, curled around him like an oversized spoon. 

And that’s where he sleeps from then on. 

#

Otabek assumes that when you spend a heated hour rutting furiously against your enemy-turned-best friend, resulting in literally the best sex you’ve ever had, you should probably talk about it. 

They don’t. 

Otabek makes breakfast for the both of them while the coffee brews. Yuri enters the kitchen, soft pajama pants slung low on his hips. He’s also wearing one of Otabek’s button downs, open and unbuttoned. Yuri slides close, dipping down to press a kiss against the side of his head. But that’s all that happens. 

Work crawls by at an agonizing pace, Otabek barely able to focus as his fingers slide over the keys of the piano. Yuri is calm and collected, barking instructions to his students, like nothing’s changed. 

But then they meet each other’s gaze, and Yuri halts in the middle a twirl, nearly toppling right over. Students laugh as they help him up, and when he looks at Otabek once more, his lips spread wide into a sheepish smile that’s so genuine, Otabek’s heart nearly sets on fire.

Otabek doesn’t make it to later that night, before he tries to call Maya. Instead, he locks himself in the tiny one-stall bathroom at the studio, frantically dialing her number. 

She doesn’t pick up. 

Yuri continues to sleep in his bed, but they don’t fuck again. And they still don’t talk about it.

In fact, they don’t do much, aside from work all day and fall asleep the moment they tuck into the sheets. Yuri’s a reader, so he’ll prop open a book for a bit, but the moment that the lights are out, he turns to Otabek, pulling him close, legs tangling together as they spoon.

Things are frustratingly chaste. 

And Maya still won’t answer her phone. 

#

February rolls around, but things are still frozen with snow. 

“God, this place is busy,” Yuri murmurs, as they settle into their usual corner chairs at the coffee shop. “I’ve never seen it so packed.”

Otabek blinks at that. “It’s Valentine’s Day.”

Yuri’s mouth parts. “Oh. Right.”

Otabek laughs, because it’s honestly funny. They’ve been busy, sure, preparing for their production of Romeo and Juliet. And yeah, _Rimsky-Korsakov_ might be a little much for a hole-in-the-wall production, but Yuri’s determined. All he’s done is eat, sleep and breathe choreography for the last month. 

“You’ve _never_ forgotten before,” Otabek says, grinning at him. 

“Ugh, don’t remind me. How could I forget the chocolate?” He looks at his mug morosely. “At least I ordered a mocha.”

“That reminds me,” Otabek says, reaching into his bag. “I got you something.”

Yuri pauses at that, fingers clasped tightly around his coffee mug as he eyes Otabek warily. 

“I, uh,” Otabek says, “Look, you definitely don’t have to accept this if you don’t want to.” 

Yuri’s eyes narrow slightly, but they shimmer with interest, taking the small envelope from Otabek’s hand. He lifts the flap and pulls out a key. Then he blinks, confused. 

“To my apartment,” Otabek says, gesturing vaguely. But nothing about this seems vague, it feels big and scary, because he’s pushing them into new territory, even though they haven’t talked about the land that they’ve already traversed. “You’re there enough, so I thought… well, you know.”

Yuri gets that soft look on his face, the one where his lips quirk slightly and the skin around his eyes crinkle. Except this time, it’s not his grandfather that makes him lose his sharp edges, it’s Otabek. He doesn’t know whether or not to count this as a victory, or be very scared.  
  
“I sublet my apartment months ago,” Yuri finally says. 

Confusion washes over Otabek. “But the nights that you aren’t--”

“I spend at the studio,” Yuri says with a shrug. “It’s not a big deal.”

But it is a big deal. The next thing that Otabek says is, “Well, no more studio.”

Yuri pockets the key. “Yeah, no more studio.”

Yuri keeps a small duffel at the studio with spare clothes, but it comes back with him to the apartment that night. 

“Another present,” Otabek proclaims, motioning to the closet. “Half of the closet and a few drawers.” 

Yuri stands in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning against the frame, his long arms crossed across his chest. He’s got that weird, soft look again, the one that Otabek hasn’t really quite figured out. He’s itching to know what causes it. 

When they lay in bed at the end of the night, the room dark and the covers warm, Yuri says something that changes things for them again. 

“I prefer it here,” he tells Otabek, his words a soft whisper between them. “Sounds dumb, probably.”

“No, Yura,” Otabek says. It’s the first time that he’s called him that, since _that_ night, but the name rolls off his tongue naturally. Like it’s meant to be. 

“Nah,” Yuri says. “It is. I’m dumb about a lot of things.”

Instead of Yuri turning over, Otabek does this time, wrapping his arm around Yuri’s waist and tugging him closer. Yuri’s back is pressed against Otabek’s chest, all warm and crisp angles. Otabek doesn’t say anything else, he just presses his forehead against the back of his neck, breathing him in. 

Later that night, Otabek jolts awake in the middle of the night. Yuri snores softly in the bed as Otabek quietly slips out and into the kitchen. 

This time when he calls, Maya picks up and instead of feeling relief, Otabek feels dread. 

“I’ve asked him to move in, Maya, but there’s so many things that we haven’t talked about.”

Like the last time, she sighs, but instead of pity, she sounds annoyed. “You haven’t told him, have you?”

And much like with Yuri, Otabek doesn’t know what to say to her. 

#

March comes and goes. And so does April. 

Otabek’s frustrated in so many ways. Frustrated in his love and feelings. Wanting to reach out and touch, but never having the courage for more than a gentle kiss on the cheek. Yuri throws himself into work, choreographing the hardest performance that he’s ever thrown at his students. 

And the thing is, it’s not bad, nothing about this is bad. It’s _good_ , genuine even. Effortless. Yuri and Otabek fit together like two puzzle pieces and yet--

Otabek feels like he’s running backwards, not forwards, getting nowhere fast when all he wants is _everything_. 

He’s never been good at expressing himself. Then again, Yuri isn’t either. 

That night, Yuri’s dog-tired on the couch, melted against the soft leather like a puddle of goo. Otabek sits on the floor with an ice bath. He pulls one of Yuri’s bruised and battered feet from the water, settling it into his lap. His fingers massage out the sore muscles and Yuri lets out a long and drawn-out moan that reminds Otabek of a night too long ago; a night full of spit-slick hands, rutting and grinding against each other under the cold snowfall of winter. 

Otabek’s hands pause as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, but Yuri must notice, because when he opens them back up, Yuri is staring. 

“Damn kids can’t get it,” Yuri says, finally looking away, head falling back against the couch as he throws an arm dramatically across his eyes. “I have to keep showing them, and it’s been a long ass time since I’ve been _en pointe._ ”

Otabek resumes his task, pulling Yuri’s other foot out of the bath and into his lap. “There’s such a thing as pushing them too hard,” he warns.

Yuri sighs. “They’ll be fine, they just need to work at it. Until then…” He trails off, waving at his feet. 

Otabek’s fingers creep up along his leg, pressing into his calves, and Yuri let’s out a gargled groan. “Shit, that’s--” Then he breathes a lofty sigh. “You’ve got the hands of an angel, I swear,” Yuri says. 

“You don’t believe in angels,” Otabek teases, but Yuri’s praise goes straight to his groin anyway. 

“No, but I believe in you.” 

Otabek pauses, regarding Yuri with a long look. Yuri’s still spread along the couch, arm laying over his face as he just _rests._ Otabek shifts slightly, leaning closer, digging his fingers harder into the knotted muscles of Yuri’s calf. It’s easier this way; he can get better leverage. 

Yuri’s making soft little grunts, tiny sighs of soft contentment. Otabek’s not entirely unaffected, heat pooling south. The room’s a lot hotter suddenly, and Otabek’s fingers pause as he weighs his options. 

He throws caution into the wind, hand sliding further up Yuri’s leg to where his knee is, squeezing his leg there, leaning closer and--

“Otabek,” Yuri says. Not angry, but probing. Testing and waiting. 

Otabek leans forward to press a kiss to Yuri’s knee, lips lingering there for way too long as he awaits a reaction. Yuri’s voice hitches slightly, breath catching as he adjusts his leg for better access, dropping his foot directly back into Otabek’s lap. They both pause and finally, Yuri looks down at him, eyes wide and dark. 

He presses his foot down to where Otabek is already hard, toes sliding over the soft material of his joggers and along the tented line of his cock. “Otabek,” Yuri says, and Otabek leans forward, pressing his forehead against his knobby knee, trying to ground himself. _“Beka,”_ Yuri says, pressing firmer, toes wiggling slightly and--

Otabek moves to kneel between Yuri’s legs, hands sliding up the curve of his thigh. He hates that he’s wearing athletic shorts; Otabek hates that he can’t nuzzle the soft skin there, or press soft kisses to soothe his aching muscles. 

Yuri’s hand finds Otabek’s head, fingers sliding along his undercut before curling into his hair proper. Otabek follows the gentle tug upwards, as Yuri leans forward, pulling him into a kiss. 

It’s not as wild or as intense as their last. Instead, it’s like coming home, Yuri’s lips warm and inviting as he slots their mouths together in a desperate bid to feel something, _anything._ Yuri grabs Otabek’s jaw, holding him firmly, thumbing along the strong bone there. 

When they part, they’re both breathing heavily. It’s Otabek that curses. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, moving to press kisses into Yuri’s neck. Yuri leans back, giving him better access. Otabek nips at the soft skin there, before chasing it with a soft kiss. Yuri arches in his touch, as Otabek’s hand drifts downward to the waistline of his pants. 

“Yura,” he says, pulling back slightly to look between them. Otabek’s fingers dip just barely into the soft cotton there and--

“Fuck it,” Yuri hisses, lifting himself up to slide the shorts down in one go. He kicks them off to the side, before pulling Otabek back to him, hands square around his face. 

“There’s no rush,” Otabek says, trying to slow him down.

“Like hell there isn’t,” Yuri huffs. “I’ve woken up every morning with that _monster_ that you hide in your pants, practically tucked between my legs.”

Otabek pauses, sheepish, because he thought he’d been better about hiding his early morning boners. Apparently not. 

“And what about you?” he says smoothly, fingers tracing the lean plane of Yuri’s abs downward. “You’ve no room to talk. I’ve had to hole myself up in the bathroom several mornings, all because you like to spoon.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Yuri breathes.

Otabek hums, thumb dipping into his belly button. “This?”

“Hide away in the bathroom.”

Oh. _Oh._ There’s a thousand things that Otabek wants to say about that, but this isn’t the time, not with Yuri underneath him, cock hard and already leaking. “Noted,” he says, before wrapping his hand around Yuri’s length, stroking up and down in a slow and deliberate pace. 

Yuri keens into the touch, rutting into his grip, and Otabek marvels at the sight. Cheeks already flushed, skin pink down to his chest, hair loose and falling from his braid. His beautiful cock, resting in Otabek’s palm, as he swipes his thumb across the soft head. 

“You’re not going to fuck me here on the couch, are you?”

Otabek looks up at him, but his hand doesn’t pause, fingers still sliding along the velvety skin of Yuri’s length. “Is that what you want?”

“The couch?” Yuri bites out. 

“For me to fuck you.”

“Beka,” Yuri whines, when Otabek let’s go, whimpering at the loss of friction.

Otabek’s fingers moving to grasp at his thighs again. “Yura,” he says, thumbs swirling against the soft skin of Yuri’s inner thighs, leaning closer. 

“You owe me the bed at least, you asshole,” Yuri breathes. 

Otabek laughs and then pulls back, standing and tugging Yuri with him. 

#

Yuri had painted a beautiful picture that cold night long ago, wrapped in the quilt and eyes half lidded with want, but it wasn’t anything compared to _this._ Yuri face down and sprawled across their bed, ass lifted high into the air. 

“Shit,” Yuri breathes into his pillow, fingers tightening their grip on the sheets. 

Otabek runs a hand down his lower back, pressing into every bone there as his other hand stills. Yuri’s so tight, even around just one finger, and Otabek’s pretty sure that he’s going to tip over the edge right then and there, just by watching Yuri come undone with only his hands. 

“It’s-- Look, it’s been awhile,” Yuri groans and Otabek laughs lightly, leaning forward to press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Probably not as long as me,” Otabek says.

“Doubtful. It’s not like I’ve had time to do anything more than jack myself off as quick as possible.”

“Oh?” Otabek’s interested. “Here? In this bed? Or in the bathroom?” He hums at the thought, circling Yuri’s rim with a second, slick finger before pressing it alongside the first slowly. In and out, a slow drag that builds mounting, delicious pressure.

“Like I’d tell you-- _oh God.”_

Otabek leans back, pressing his fingers in earnestly, watching them as they drag and pull at Yuri’s hole. Yuri presses back against his hand eagerly, trying to meet his hand, spurring him on. 

“I’m curious,” Otabek says. He’s not usually one for bedroom banter, but he thinks that Yuri is trying to distract himself, so he’ll play along.

“The studio,” Yuri says, voice pitched a little higher, soft and breathy, before it dissolves into a quiet moan. “The piano bench, and if you must know-- always to thoughts of you.”

Otabek pauses to look at his face. Yuri’s looking back, unashamed, but cheeks red with strain. “Oh Yura,” he sighs.

“I’ve always had it bad,” Yuri says. 

Otabek hooks his fingers into a different angle and Yuri cries out, _“There, oh-- oh--”_ His hips grind back against Otabek’s hand urgently, fervently. Otabek leans over him, sliding his fingers in and out, scissoring gently as he tries his best to pull Yuri apart little by little. 

“Another?” Otabek asks him, a third finger sliding through the slick lube. “Do--” Yuri reaches back behind him to grab at Otabek’s hand to still it. 

“Please,” Yuri begs, a keening little murmur pressed into the sheets. “Not on your fingers, I don’t want to-- not yet.” 

“Alright,” Otabek says, petting his hair gently as he pulls his fingers out gingerly. Then he flips Yuri onto his back. He’s a vision of debauchery, half-lidded gaze and blown pupils, cock angrily hard and leaking against his taut belly. 

“Perfect,” Otabek sighs, slicking his own length up and settling himself between Yuri’s legs. 

He presses in slowly, fingers finding purchase at Yuri’s hipbones. He’s tight, _so fucking tight_ , and Otabek screws his eyes shut as he looks towards the heavens and takes a deep breath to steady himself. 

_“Fuck,”_ Yuri hisses out, and at first, Otabek’s worried that he’s done something wrong. But then Yuri raises his hips and links his legs around Otabek’s waist, trying to pull him closer and--

Otabek responds in kind, leaning forward and pressing deep, cursing into Yuri’s neck. Yuri’s back arches underneath and he practically sobs at the feel of it. Otabek has to pause, sweat already beading along his brow, fingers sliding along Yuri’s pale and smooth leg. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “Sorry, I’m--”

“A moment,” Yuri says, pulling Otabek’s face closer to his. “I just need a moment, because I’m so close.”

Otabek kisses him, slow and languid, different than their earlier ones which had been heated and desperate. It’s not a battle of lips, it’s a worshipping, Otabek’s hand curling into Yuri’s hair. Yuri’s parts his mouth and Otabek licks into him, moaning lowly as Yuri grinds his hips in a small little circle. 

Yuri pulls away first, running a hand down Otabek’s chest, thumbing across a dusky nipple, and then it’s Otabek’s turn to whine. He pulls back, before pressing back in and _shit_ , Yuri’s like hot velvet around him. 

“I’m not-- Yuri, this isn’t going to last long,” he hisses, thrusting slowly, trying to think of anything else that isn’t the tight heat that surrounds his cock. 

“I don’t care,” Yuri says, using his legs to cant his hips up, meeting every short little thrust. “I don’t-- _shit that’s good.”_

Otabek hikes Yuri’s hips higher along his waist, pressing his thighs to his chest, changing the angle ever so slightly. He’s dreamt about Yuri’s flexibility, and the potential ways they could use it to their advantage. Yuri cries out, howling his name and then cursing it, and then babbling that he wants more. Otabek doesn’t quicken his pace, he lengthens his thrusts, sliding into him effortlessly, grinding against the perfect spot, and--

Yuri comes first with a cry, fingers fisted in Otabek’s hair as he falls over the edge, white hot and blazing. Yuri tightens around his cock, pressed as deep as he can possibly be. Then Otabek’s chasing his own high, coming shortly after, practically chanting Yuri’s name over and over and _over._

They’re breathing hard. Yuri drops his legs, boneless against the sheets, voice hoarse from strain. Otabek pulls out carefully and away. 

“No,” Yuri says, reaching out to grab his arm. 

“Just grabbing a towel,” Otabek says to him. Yuri grunts, but let’s go. 

A little while later, they’re naked in the sheets, Yuri tucked against Otabek’s chest and their legs tangled. Otabek stares at the dark ceiling, fingers combing through Yuri’s hair idly as he thinks. He’s heard dumb and romantic stories of life-changing love making but-- 

Well, nothing describes _this_ , he thinks. 

Yuri’s still awake, scratching his nails across his chest lightly as he hums Mozart softly, because he’s got _The Magic Flute_ on his brain. 

“I danced for the Bolshoi Ballet, until I was nineteen,” Yuri says randomly and Otabek’s breath hitches, because as close as they’ve become, Yuri’s never really talked about the _before._ “My grandfather gave just about everything and more, for me to be properly trained. Something about being a prodigy, or whatever. I made principal, and then I fucked everything up by breaking my ankle.

“Grandpa doesn’t really care what I do with my life, he just wants me to be happy. But ballet’s everywhere in Russia, and I was tired of seeing it. So I packed that dumb duffel bag with some clothes, bought a one way ticket to Los Angeles, and somehow made it to here, in the butt fuck middle of Nevada.”

“... Only to work with ballet students.”

Yuri sighs at that, but he doesn’t sound unhappy. “Lilia recognized me one morning, while grabbing coffee. She wouldn’t leave me alone until I gave it a try. Had my first day, made an ass of myself and then you--”

Otabek remembers. “The first thing that you never said to me, was to tell me to fuck off.”

Yuri laughs. “Yeah.” He pauses for a moment, and then, “I’d always thought that I kinda would just… _rot_ away here. It’s nice to not feel like that anymore.”

Otabek kind of gets it, actually. 

“Yeah,” Otabek agrees.

#

Summer starts, and Yuri’s students put on an astounding adaptation of _The Magic Flute._

Yuri moves what little things he has in storage, into Otabek’s house. It’s not much really, just a stack of shelves and a pile of books to match. Some extra clothes. A few pictures of his grandpa and a cat named _Potya._

They watch movies, while eating dinner on the couch. Otabek rubs at Yuri’s feet and legs, and sometimes, he rubs his cock too. 

The routine is nice. It’s warm and friendly, and it makes his heart tingle. It’s nice to wake up with someone, and go to bed with someone. It’s nice when it’s not complicated, when it seems so fucking effortless, that you don’t have to think twice. 

But that’s the thing about it-- it’s routine. 

Otabek’s never really liked routine. 

#

“I love you,” Otabek blurts into the darkness of their room one night.

Yuri’s hand stops, splaying wide across Otabek’s chest, where he’s tucked into his side. “I know,” Yuri says. “I would hope so.”

Otabek’s heart feels like it’s going to explode, because confessions don’t usually go like this, the other person doesn’t usually go _I know._

Yuri shifts against him, pulling away to scoot up to his pillow. Otabek turns towards him, sliding a hand under his own. “Wait,” Yuri starts, “did you think that I didn’t--”

“I never know what you think, Yuri.”

Yuri’s quiet for a long moment. “We’re bad at this, aren’t we?”

“Yeah, we kind of are.” 

“It goes without saying, that I love you too,” Yuri says. 

Otabek expects it, after Yuri’s offense to his earlier declaration, but it still hits him right in the gut. “Come here,” Otabek says. “Yura-”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, scooting closer and pulling Otabek to him.

“I guess I thought it was obvious,” Yuri says. “I didn’t think that I needed to tell you.”

Otabek hums against his neck, pressing a kiss there. “We went about this backwards, I think. Did we ever even properly introduce ourselves to each other? Way back then?”

“I don’t think so,” Yuri says, running his fingers through Otabek’s hair. He sighs into the touch, melting against him. 

“Hi, I’m Otabek,” he murmurs against Yuri. 

“Hey, I’m Yuri. I’m going to kick your ass.” Otabek laughs against him. “And then I’m going to fall in love with you.”

“Yeah,” Otabek says, “I like the sound of that.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Have questions? A burning need for answers? Have a story idea? Just want to talk Otayuri? Don't forget to check out my [Tumblr](https://missmarquin.tumblr.com/), and drop an ask! 
> 
> Also, follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/HornyBaldFossil)


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